


Thank God

by allofthefandoms



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, First Time, Get Together, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Sub Steve Rogers, mentions of internalized homophobia, sub space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/pseuds/allofthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to know," Steve barreled on, terrified that if he didn't get started now he would never say it.  "I want know your fantasies, what you want to do with me, the things that make you feel warm and even the things that make you feel a little dirty.  But I also want to know what your favorite breakfast is so I can cook it for you when you have a bad night and what your favorite color is so I can paint every wall with it.  I want to hold your hand and bring you flowers at work and kiss you on the street.  I want to stand on every rooftop in Brooklyn and tell the world how much I love you.  I'm not used to being allowed to want that."</p><p>Apparently they're just going to dive straight into the Mariana trench, no tanks, no buoyancy devices, no wetsuits, buck-ass naked.   Despite feeling almost hysterically giddy, like he's real short on oxygen (no tanks, remember), Sam finds that he's fine with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank God

**Author's Note:**

> While I don't think it counts as dub-con, there is unexpected sub-space that happens and isn't dealt with until after sex. I am a member of the kink community and I tried to make it as genuine to my own experiences as possible, but it's worth mentioning in case that bugs folks. This is also Steve's first sexual relationship, so Steve still has a bit of baggage from that as well, hence the internalized homophobia tag.

Thank god for Sam.

It's all Steve can think about as he's curled up in Sam's tiny flat in Harlem, listening to the rain clatter down on pavement.  A lot has changed since Steve was last in Harlem, but the sound of rain on pavement is not one of them.

Sam is at the VA, though he's due home any minute.  He almost quit, but Steve insisted that Sam keep his gig there.  He was doing so much good, and Steve felt selfish keeping it all to himself.  (One of them had to at least pretend to be normal, Steve had said, and Sam gave Steve the saddest, most broken smile Steve had ever seen, kissing his cheek and nodding.)  And so Steve is by himself, listening to the rain and nursing hot chocolate, waiting for Sam to come home.

By the time Sam gets into the stairwell that leads up to his apartment, he's sopping wet and thoroughly disgruntled. It's been a shit day to cap off a shit week; the group he'd run this morning had gone all to pieces when he'd been unable to help one of the members stay on an even keel, he'd let himself get roped into co-facilitating another group starting up tomorrow, he'd missed lunch after rushing out of the house too late to grab breakfast, and now he's drenched, to top it all off.

He's not a child. He's not going to stomp up the stairs in a sullen pout. He's not. He's not.

But god, he wants to.

He stands silent in front of his own doorway so that he can take a breath and try to shake off the frustration that's got no place inside his home. He's good at this, usually; compartmentalization isn't about callousness, but about survival, about not burning out.

For one selfish moment, he's torn between hoping Steve isn't home (because Sam would like to stalk around and bitch to himself and slam a few things) and praying that he's there to greet him (because even though Steve desperately needs to get out and go live, go do normal everyday things more often, Sam locks onto his presence like a homing beacon and finds his own center more easily whenever he's around).

Shouldering open the door, he digs his keys and his sodden wallet out of his damp pockets and stands there dripping on the mat, ears perked for any indication of Steve. There's nothing, so he calls out "Lucy?" in his best Ricky Riccardo impression, then waits a beat. "Hey, you wanna bring me a towel if you're back there?"

Steve is up before Sam even finishes speaking and before Sam can even process, the kettle is on and Steve has wrapped him up in an obscenely fluffy towel that was a housewarming gift from Stark.

"Bad day?" Steve asks gently.  He can see the telltale lines pulling especially hard around Sam's eyes, and he wants to lean down and kiss them away, but he's unsure that's appropriate.  They've never defined this thing between them that's hovering in the air so thick Steve is sure he could cut it.  So he settles for running a finger over Sam's cheek, catching a droplet of water.

Sam's lips part at the unexpected brush of Steve's finger against his cheek, light and warm; his hand twitches minutely, wanting to reach up and take Steve's wrist, pull it to his lips to kiss the inside of it, and that--that's---

The smirk he flashes at Steve is just a little too bright, close up like this, and so he covers it by turning away to fuss with the towel.

"Yeah," he replies, "the kind of bad you try not to drag home with you." He scrubs the towel over his head and the back of his neck, then toes off his shoes and his disgusting squelchy socks and peels off the hopeless shirt, tossing it all into a pile by the door. "Thanks for the towel. You been up from the couch at all today, other than to toss it to me?"

"Got out to Rudy's for coffee and some sketching," Steve replied, scooping up the sodden pile of clothes to stick them in the drier.  It had been hours ago, but it counted, right?

Vacillating only for a moment, Sam decides it's not worth dripping all over his hardwood floors--he'd refinished them himself two summers ago, and finally he'd understood why his mother had insisted on all the kids taking off their shoes in her home--and strips off his rain-soaked pants, too. He tosses them to Steve, who's already gathering up the rest of the pile of damp discarded clothing, murmuring a quiet thanks as he heads down the hall for the drier.

It knocks him a little off his rocker, realizing that he's got someone around who'll jump right up to help out not just with the big earth-shattering things, but with the mundane little things, too. Since coming back from his second tour overseas, Sam had thrown himself almost completely into helping others put the pieces back together. He likes watching the light come back into their eyes, seeing the set of their shoulders change as they figure out how to make their burdens lighter, or at least to carry them better.

He'd let himself be put back together, too, after a while, because he owed it to the people he loved, and especially to Riley. Most of all, he'd owed it to himself, though it'd taken him a long damn time to realize it. Now, more than ever, he realizes how good it feels to be taken care of, even if it's just in the smallest ways.

He wonders if Steve is ever going to let himself have that same realization.

By the time Steve is back from loading the clothes into the dryer, Sam has changed into a pair of dry sweats and an old tank that's all stretched out at the hem and shoulders. He's poking around in the kitchen, too lazy and too urgently hungry all at once to feel like bothering with real cooking. Cereal seems a decent enough fallback, so he pulls down a box from atop the fridge and gets the milk out.

"What's that for?" he asks, tilting his chin at the kettle, which is starting to whistle. "And do I get to see the sketches?"

"My ma always told me that the best way to ward off a chill was from the inside," Steve said with a smile.  "It can be tea, coffee or cacao as you like or nothing at all.”  He pulls out his sketch book and hesitates for a long moment before flipping it open.

All of the pictures he had drawn that morning had been of Sam, reverent and thoughtful.  But the one he's most embarrassed about is a nude, drawn from Steve's memories of catching Sam right after a shower.   The sun had made him glow like an angel, and the picture is almost pornographic in its intimacy.

"Man, I haven't had hot cocoa since I was a kid," Sam answers as he finishes fixing his cereal. "Sounds perfect. Alright, let's see what you got." He takes the notebook and sits at the tiny table over by the window, careful to keep the pages well away from his bowl as he digs into his cereal. The first couple of sketches don't take him aback any; it's not the first time he's seen sketches of himself drawn in Steve's sure, nuanced hand, though he's no less impressed with Steve's talent than he's ever been.

A few more flips of the page, and Sam forgets to keep shoveling in his cereal. There's something more than just the lines on the page going on here, something in the expressions Steve's chosen to capture, the angles he's chosen to reflect. Sam feels suddenly hyper-aware of himself, skin prickling not unpleasantly, but as happens sometimes when all eyes are on him as he's kicking off a new group or speaking at an event.

Three more pages in, and Sam's spoon clatters unceremoniously against the side of his bowl. He's very still as he studies the rendering -- a nude of himself, morning sunlight pouring through a window and suffusing the whole image with delicacy and intensity all at once.

It's gorgeous.

"Jesus," he whispers. "Steve, that's..." he straightens up and shakes his head, trying to recover himself. His face feels too hot and he's got no idea what to do with his hands, which is, that's just, it's ridiculous, he's sitting in his own goddamn kitchen eating cereal, it's not all that difficult. "Damn. Coulda told me I was modeling, I'd at least have had a chance to flex a little, show off some, you know?"

"You're beautiful just the way you are," Steve murmured, staring at his hands before busying himself with making Sam's hot chocolate.  He can feel sweat and heat prickling at the back of his neck as he tries to keep from squirming.  He wants to lean over, kiss that cute little expression Sam was making, hold him, tell him about all the feelings swelling and rattling inside him, but Sam had asked him to the VA to impress girls.  Sam deserved better.

Sam laughs quietly, shaking his head. "How are you even real," he teases, because that line? It's the cheesiest goddamn line in the book, but somehow Steve manages to pull it off as completely sincere.

Which means that Steve really, truly does think he's beautiful, and even though Sam's got no shortage of confidence about his looks, that's still a hell of a thing. And these drawings...Sam pages backward through the notebook, poring over each sketch and soaking in the details all over again as a vague suspicion he's been refusing to acknowledge starts rearing up at the back of his mind.

 

Sam glances over at Steve and sees that he's doing the thing where he's holding himself tightly in check. When Steve is relaxed and not putting on some performance of himself, he's prone to open, honest expressions and all sorts of casual little gestures; he's animated. Now, though, he's strangely composed, almost stiff as he prepares the cocoa, refusing to meet Sam's eyes.

Sam shuts the sketchbook carefully, and then takes his bowl and spoon over to the sink to rinse them out. He runs them under the water longer than he needs to, trying to reach some kind of decision. He doesn't really succeed, but fuck it. No time like the present.

"Tell me you're not making it from scratch," he says, pressing his still-damp hand right into the small of Steve's back as he comes to stand next to him by the stove. "That'd make three times in the past ten minutes you've been too good to be true."

"If we had any real chocolate I'd even be melting it, but I'll settle for baking chocolate" Steve said back, unable to stop himself from shivering at the press of Sam's hand against his back.  Sam is so close that he could just tip his head back and kiss his cheek but he can't.  He can't do that to his precious Sam, the man who had pulled him from the edge of a very dark place with tenderness, laughter and late nights with the record player and their memories.

Steve is not a catch.  He may look beautiful now, but he's still that nervous tiny little guy on the inside, unwanted and unsure.  And it's even worse now that Bucky's back-but-not.  He'd been okay, been patching up the pieces of himself into something he could live with and now that had been shattered beyond repair.  But Sam stayed by him anyway, and it made Sam such a better person than Steve.

Sam frowns slightly, and his palm presses flat against Steve's back. There's something in his tone that doesn't sit quite right with Sam, and he's learned by now that sometimes the easiest route with Steve, when he gets like this, is also the most direct. "Hey," he says, tone not teasing any longer but instead entirely forthright, "look at me." His hand skims slightly over Steve's back before he lets it drop to his side, and he takes a small step back so that he can address Steve face to face--pending him actually doing what Sam's just asked. "What's got you all tensed up, hm? You think I'm gonna get all weird on you 'cuz you drew a few pictures of me? I'm not." 

Steve can't resist that face.  Not the one that's so heartbreakingly honest and open, ready to smooth away any fear or worry.

"I think I love you," Steve blurts before pulling away, stirring the boiling milk furiously.

All the breath rushes out of Sam, as sure as if he'd gotten the wind knocked straight out of him. He'd thought maybe Steve would kiss him, or start up some argument about why it'd be a bad idea to kiss him, or maybe even ask why the hell Sam was sidled up so close because Sam had read the situation all wrong.

I love you, though...of all the potential responses Steve might've given, that hadn't even crossed Sam's radar as a possibility.

And here he is just standing, gaping like a fool, not saying a damn thing, and Steve's going to panic (fuck, Sam is panicking, this is exactly what panic feels like), and he's going to think Sam doesn't feel the same, when really, isn't that exactly the thing Sam's been trying in a hundred ways to deny these past months, too scared of taking advantage when Steve's been in such a bad way that he hadn't dared even consider...

"Shit, Steve," he rasps out, hooking a hand over Steve's hip to pull him in for an insistent kiss.

The spoon clatters to the floor as Steve melts into the kiss.  Sam tastes like milk and Cheerios and spit and it's the best taste Steve thinks he's ever tasted.

The kiss is interrupted as the milk boils over, and Steve swears, turning the stove off before turning back to Sam, eyes wide and questioning.

Without a word, Sam picks the spoon up and sets it in the sink while Steve deals with the boil over. It puts him a step or two away from Steve, and he stays right where he is once Steve's attention rounds on him again, every inch of him a question aimed at Sam.

"Okay," Sam says, raking one hand back over his hair. "Okay. First thing is, I been trying a long time to pretend like I don't feel the same, but I do." He puts a hand up, stalling off any interjection Steve might try to make. "Listen to me, though, Steve. You've gotta...look, you said you think, you think you love me," and Christ, it's hard to get that out without his heart flip-flopping right out of his chest, "but I'm thinking maybe you've been lonely since a long time before I came around, and you don't have many people, and now you're kinda locked in with me, and you're trying to unpack all this shit with Bucky now that he's back, and I just...it's a lot. I know it is. And I don’t' want to confuse anything." He takes a breath and takes a step closer, running a hand down from Steve's shoulder to clasp his elbow gently. "One kiss, that's a thing you can take back and call a mistake; we go on just like we been doing, because that works just fine. We kiss again, though, that becomes something different. Up to you to tell me whether that kind of something is what you're ready for or not."

"Sam, you're not Bucky," Steve says softly.  "Please don't think I'm trying to replace Bucky with you just because you've been _nice_ to me.  You're so different, in a good way.  But...but that's why I said 'I think' because you deserve so much better than a man who falls in love with someone just because they were kind. But I'm also not going to say I don't want to kiss you again, to get to touch those lines I seem to spend every day drawing, to get on my knees for you and be yours in every way because I'm not a liar and I _do_ want all those things and have for a long time."

There might as well be static zinging along the seam where skin touches skin; that's how keenly Sam is aware of his fingertips against Steve's arm. There are a hundred different reasons why this is a terrible idea, and a hundred different cautions he ought to voice, but they all dry up in his throat and all he can do is lean in and kiss Steve again, tugging at his elbow so that Steve will wrap an arm around him. He pushes both hands up the back of Steve's neck and through the close-cropped hair there, pulling him in to deepen the kiss, though he keeps it slow and just this side of fiercely demanding.

Steve's kiss is just as desperate, his mouth opening in invitation.  It feels like Sam has all the oxygen left in the world in his lungs, and by the time he pulls away, Steve is trembling with want.

Steve breaks away just long enough for Sam to catch a breath, and damn if it doesn't jigger through his lungs all rough and needful. He lets his hands slip down out of Steve's hair to skim over his chest, then takes him by the hips and tugs him in close, all the remaining empty space between them eaten up into nothing. "You got any idea how long I've wanted to do this?" he breathes before pressing his mouth to Steve's again, nipping at his lower lip and then sucking it gently through his teeth before kissing him in earnest.

"Surely not as long as I've wanted to," Steve said, just as breathless as Sam.  "Not sure if you noticed, but I was totally flirting with you on that run the day we met."

Sam rolls his eyes and smirks right against Steve's lips. "Felt kinda like flirting," he says, mouthing lightly along Steve's jaw line, "but I figured maybe I just wasn't reading your game right." He nudges his thumbs up just under the hem of Steve's shirt, arcing them over smooth warm skin right above his hips. "Anyway, what kind of jerk flirts by running the other guy into the ground, huh? Showoff," he teases, sliding his hands up Steve's sides and digging his fingertips into his ribs just enough to see if he's ticklish, or if the serum cured him of that along with everything else.

Steve shudders and gasps, unsure if it's because the touch tickled or because it felt like electricity.

"Been told a fella likes a fit partner," Steve said with a breathless grin.  "Besides, if I had slowed down, you would have known I was staring."

"You been staring plenty ever since, based on those sketches," he shoots back, dipping in to kiss the side of Steve's throat as he rucks up his shirt enough to press his palms flat against his bared stomach. This is...really not what he should be doing. He should be taking about five steps back and asking Steve on a proper date and then saying goodnight, not pawing at his abs like some kind of thirsty teenager, but Jesus Christ, it's hard to maintain reason when he's got Steve this close, after Steve's said those words, and...hell, he's going to be in so far over his head so quickly, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Yeah, well..."  Steve is suddenly bashful as he puts the finishing touches on Sam's hot chocolate, shoving the mug over to him.

When Steve pulls away and turns back to the stove, Sam frowns but doesn't press the issue. He simply takes the cocoa when Steve offers it, murmuring his thanks and schooling his expression into careful neutrality. After a few sips--goddamn, that's good--he's gotten nowhere in trying to figure out whether Steve's just gone shy or whether Sam's crossed some line too quick for Steve's liking.

"I like that you look, you know," Sam says, not quite tentative, but still trying to feel Steve out. "At me. I like being in your head enough that you've got to draw me."

Steve felt his ears go pink, and he smiles, shoulders relaxing.

"Would...?  I've been wanting to paint you for a while.  Would...would you pose for me?"

Sam wrinkles his nose up and huffs a little, but he doesn't bother trying to hide the big smirk this request puts on his face. "I dunno, Cap. Not sure I'd know what to do with myself just sitting stock-still like that for however long." He catches Steve's gaze and holds it a moment while his grin takes on the faintest edge of mischief. "I guess you could probably show me the ropes, though."

"I am _not_ letting you do what Bucky did when he posed nude for me," Steve said with a huff. "You're pretty, but that should be saved for something special."

Steve remembers vividly watching Bucky jerk himself off as Steve had painted him.  The half-finished painting hung in the Smithsonian, along with many other sketches he had done.  Seeing the happy flushed face of Bucky there had made Steve squirm, all too aware of what the picture hadn't shown.

Sam arches a brow at Steve. "What kind of special are we talking about?" he asks impassively, pausing a beat before polishing off his cocoa and sticking his mug in the sink. Rather pointedly, he doesn't ask what Bucky got up to when Steve had drawn him all those years ago. The face Steve had pulled had given him an inkling, and for now, he's content without the details.

"Pretty sure you can guess," Steve teased.  "Do I look like the type to put out on the first date?" 

The thought of dates, and then what happens after dates, made Steve turn pink again.  He couldn't shake the image of being on his knees before Sam out of his head, and it made him squirm where he stood.

"I don't know," Sam replies, trying mostly in vain to tamp down the rush of affection he feels when he watches Steve turning faintly pink all over again. "I guess maybe you're gonna have to let me take you on a first date so I can figure it out for myself."

Steve knows his eyes are wide as saucers when he turns to look at Sam, breathless hope and adoration written all over his face.

The expression on Steve's face disarms Sam so quickly he reels with it, though he makes a good show of keeping his smile soft and neutral. He closes the gap Steve had put between them by a step, then stands there with a hip cocked against the counter and his whole posture an invitation. "Dinner someplace nice, because you've got no clue how fine you look in a suit and tie but I sure do, then the park after, since we might as well enjoy what's left of summer while we can. Yeah?"

Steve reverently settles into the inviting curve Sam has left for him, kissing him sweetly.

"Sounds perfect."

Sam's mind is racing in twenty different directions at once, but when Steve kisses him again, all that clamoring fades to the background. He doesn't push for more than Steve gives of his own accord this time. He's still not sure why Steve had pulled away so abruptly before, and he himself is still struggling just to wrap his head around the fact that he's really got Steve now in a whole new way that he's wanted since day one but hasn't been willing to risk seeking, not until now. When the kiss breaks, Sam leans in so that their foreheads touch, and he skims a hand down Steve's arm to clasp his wrist. "Good. Tomorrow night. Right now, though, I'm gonna go take a shower and get this day all the way off of me." He tilts his face in just enough to kiss the corner of Steve's mouth, and then nuzzles at his cheek, liking the faint scrape of stubble. "You feel like doing a little drawing, once I'm done?"

"Better yet, there's an art store three blocks from here," Steve said with a soft smile.  "You go shower and I'll get some paints."

Sam nods and fits his hand over Steve's side, fingers slotting into the ripple of his obliques through his shirt. "Deal," he murmurs, then kisses him -- not on the mouth, because he'd get lost in it all over again, and neither of them would get anywhere, and that...well, that sounds too goddamn good to resist if he got going with it -- at the tender patch of skin just shy of his ear, then moves away reluctantly. "You better be back by the time I'm out," he calls over his shoulder from halfway down the hall.

"I can run a mile in under a minute," Steve reminded Sam with a grin as they peeled away.  "And mindful of those neck kisses.  They are my one weakness."

Steve knows he spends too much time fretting over oil paints versus acrylics versus watercolors and then on getting just the right shades of brown and black and tan.  Picking out canvas, brushes and a stand was easier, and he lugged it all back and began setting up.

Sam doesn't hurry through his shower; he spends a lot of it just standing under the hot spray, head bowed, running the whole conversation with Steve back through his head. Some of the ways Steve had phrased certain things give Sam pause, but he's too caught up in the overall rush of kissing him, of having him talk about being in love, to sort it out just yet. He can't quite believe this sprung up all at once after long months of trying to quell feelings he didn't want cluttering up their friendship and Steve's already very muddled headspace, what with the fallout of SHIELD's collapse, the return of Bucky, and what Sam suspects must still be the shock of existing in a whole new century. Sam's careful in the same way Steve is careful; he's good at not letting the cracks show, but he, too, has had a lot on his plate ever since falling in with Steve -- and since before Steve was ever in the picture.

Still, there's not a chance in hell he's going to let go of this opportunity, now that it's been laid right out on the table. He's feeling about a hundred different ways right now, but most of all, he's excited and he's grateful.

Finally, he cuts off the water and towels himself mostly dry, then pauses for a moment, considering. He could tug back on the same shapeless sweats and tank he'd had on before; they're clean enough, barely worn, but they're not exactly the sort of thing he can imagine anybody wanting to commit to canvas, either. He takes a long look at himself in the still-fogged mirror, then decides that he's pretty sure that Steve hadn't meant for clothes to be involved at all. He wraps the white towel snugly around his hips and heads back out to the living room to see if Steve has returned, shivering faintly at the cool rush of air over his bare skin.

Sam thinks for a moment about asking for clarification, studying Steve's face. Then he simply shrugs and smirks at him, hooks a finger under the towel where it's looped in on itself, and tugs it free, letting it pool around his feet on the floor before stepping clear and heading over to the sofa. He feels a bit ridiculous, hyper-aware of his own movements and of the cool air, of the soft scratch of upholstery against skin that's not used to being quite so bare. It's not embarrassment nor shyness; it's just that he can feel every bit of Steve's focus directed entirely on him, and that's always been a little overwhelming, even before they'd laid all their cards out on the table.

"Hello handsome," Steve said with a grin, pleased to be allowed to openly look.  "Get yourself comfortable and we'll get started."  Steve starts with big open outlines, capturing the way Sam lounges against the sofa, grin open and warm.  There's a strange heat pooling in his stomach, not lust but something a whole lot scarier.

Stretching out with one heel propped up a little and the other leg laid flat, Sam laces his hands behind his head, arms back against the pillow that's leaning on the armrest, and relaxes. He doesn't look right at Steve, but off to the side a little, out the window where the late afternoon sun is slanting in at sharp angles and playing up patterns on the walls of the apartment. "I hope you didn't expect some kind of Michelangelo shit," he quips, "me all posed and flexing and whatever. Well, unless you do want that, in which case, I can put on a gun show for you." He can't help snickering at his own cheesy line, though he tries keeping mostly composed and still so as not to ruin Steve's work.

"As I said, you're beautiful just the way you are," Steve replied fondly.  He began to fill in the easy lines he had started before, brush held lightly as he began to capture the light rippling over Sam's still damp skin.

Sam is quiet for a long while, listening to the soft scritching of Steve's tools against the canvas. Watching him work is a little captivating. "You gonna let me catch a glimpse or do I have to wait until you're done?"

"Wanna see?"  Steve tilted the canvas towards Sam so he could see canvas.  The most finished part is Sam's face, smiling and warm.  There's been devotional care in the way Steve rendered the laugh lines around Sam's eyes, the color seeming to jump of the canvas.  Steve is faintly pink, grateful that it's now okay that all his emotions are so transparent.

Sam gapes. It's graceless and almost certainly not attractive, but there's nothing to be done about it. He stares at the canvas and soaks up the developing image there, which is both very recognizably himself and yet rendered with such...tenderness, there's no other word for it...that he has trouble parsing it. "Jesus, Steve," he breathes, pushing up a little further on his elbows to catch Steve's gaze. Steve's expression strikes some chord in him that's irrefutable, and he feels greedy, suddenly possessive in a way that demands action. "Put that down a sec and get over here, will you," he says, voice pitched low and just a touch rough around the edges. "I need to kiss you."

Steve is startled out of his focus by Sam's breathless request, the need striking a cord inside him.  It's still so strange to be allowed to want this, to openly paint his naked sweetheart and kiss him in front of open picture Windows.  No more decency raids or shame or guilt, and Sam is just an endless fountain of want and love that films Steve fit to bursting.

"Well?" Sam questions, arching a brow at Steve and letting a little bit of challenge slip into his tone. "You coming or not? You've got all afternoon to paint, but I'm running on empty over here. More kisses. Now."

"I'm gonna make a right fool of myself, but right now I'd much rather be sucking your dick," Steve said breathlessly.

Sam's gaze darkens, taking on an edge as he pushes up off the couch and stalks across the room quick is can be, closing the gap between himself and Steve. He slides a hand over the back of Steve's neck and draws him in for a kiss that's slick and filthy, pressing right up against him so that he's aware of every inch of his own bare skin sidled up beside Steve's still-clothed warmth. "What am I gonna do with you," he breathes between kisses, nipping at Steve's lower lip less than gently, "and that goddamn mouth of yours. Guess you think I oughta let you use it, hm?"

Steve dropped happily to his knees.  He knows this.  70 years on ice hasn't changed how much Steve _loves_ giving head, and Sam's cock, growing steadily thicker, is just as pretty as the rest of him.

Steve's first kisses are open mouthed and wet, braining in the smell and taste of him.  He lets a free hand trail up Sam's inner thigh before grabbing the base of his cock so he could draw it properly into his mouth.

"Shit, Steve," Sam breathes as impossibly warm wetness engulfs him, thighs trembling a little because it's so much more sensation than he had been ready to cope with even half a minute ago. He threads his fingers back through Steve's hair and wills himself not to buck into the delicious heat of Steve's mouth.

Steve just relaxed his throat, a silent invitation.

It takes a beat, but Sam realizes that Steve is waiting for him, just...just kneeling there, mouth open, perfectly still, like he's ready for Sam to do with him as he pleases.

"God, you're..." he murmurs, then trails off because there are too many words that could fill in the gap of silence: perfect, gorgeous, too much, impossible.

Sam's fingers tighten in Steve's hair, not brutal but enough for Steve to notice, and he tests his willingness with a few thrusts that are as carefully restrained as Sam can manage.

Steve gives a happy moan, eyes glassy with pleasure.  He can feel the edges of something, a floaty soft place he had never found a word for.  He lets his eyes flutter shut, just feeling.  Sam's hands are safe and warm and big, and Steve tilts slightly into the touch with a long sigh.

The moan feels enveloping and electric, and Sam's thighs tremble a little as he loses a little of the tight rein he's got on himself and thrusts with more momentum into the warmth of Steve's mouth. The hand he's got in Steve's hair tightens enough to tug him forward just slightly into the motion of his hips--he doesn't want to make Steve gag, but god, he's opening up for him like he was born to do it--and his other hand comes up to cup over Steve's jaw, thumb tracing the hollowed dip of his cheek. "That's it, nice and easy," he murmurs.

Steve's never had much of a gag reflex, and what he did have had long since been trained away.  Sam's touch makes him shiver, and he is pliant and loose, letting Sam move him as he pleases.

Sam really, really hadn't been prepared for this when he'd walked through the door all of an hour or so ago, and to be frank, he's having a fucking lot of trouble catching up with the moment before it just about bowls him over. He's losing the steadiness of the rhythm he's struck up, hips wanting to stutter forward into the slick softness of Steve's mouth and right down his throat, and suddenly, he's precariously close to the edge. Distantly, some prideful little corner of his mind kicks up a fuss about holding out, lasting longer, but Sam can't really care about that right now, not when he's got Steve on his knees sucking him off, right out here in the living room.

Steve moans at the gush of pre-come, hollowing his cheeks in silent encouragement.  He wants nothing more in this moment than to drink Sam down, floating in a haze of pleasure.

"Ahh, shit, you feel so good," Sam huffs out roughly, shifting to put his hands on either side of Steve's face and pulling back so that just the tip of his cock remains inside those impossible red lips. "I'm gonna..." he tries to warn, but then he makes the mistake of looking down. It's such a sight, Steve's lips stretched and glossy around him, hair a mess from Sam's fingers gripping it, eyes gone hazy-soft, that Sam loses the battle, thrusts back in deep, and comes.

Steve swallows and swallows and swallows, whimpering when he feels Sam start to go soft in his mouth.  It's not until Sam pulls away, hissing slightly with sensitivity, that Steve notices he's come in his pants.

Dazedly, Sam lets his hands slip slowly from Steve's face as he tries to catch his breath and keep himself from toppling over. He strokes over Steve's jaw before dropping his arms back to his sides. With a little less than perfect grace, he drops to his knees then and runs his hands over Steve's shoulders, then up the back of his neck, pulling him in to kiss his temple and then all the way down the side of his throat, until his teeth find the juncture of his shoulder and nip along the curve of it, each little bite followed up with a suckling kiss.

At the first sign of teeth, Steve is lost.  That cloudy place sucks him right in, and leaves him floating and pliant and warm in Sam's grip.

Sam starts to let his hands roam, skimming down Steve's back and then rucking up his shirt so that he can trace his ribs and the rise and fall of his abs. He keeps up his gentle mouthing at Steve's shoulder, then flicks the tip of his tongue over Steve's pulse and goes back for a kiss on the lips. "God, you're gonna make such a wreck of me," he murmurs right into his mouth, just as he's slipping a hand inside Steve's waistband to palm him, and--

And then Sam's brain whites out for a second, a little shiver running through him as he realizes that Steve's already come without being touched at all, just from having Sam's cock in his mouth. The kiss turns heated, insistent, and the fact that Sam can taste himself still on Steve's tongue makes him moan.

Steve just hums against Sam's neck, rolling gently into his hands.  He loves the press of the naked, hot skin against his clothed body, and he moans softly into Sam's mouth as they kiss.

Sam breaks away just long enough to tug Steve's shirt over his head and toss it aside. He pulls him in for another kiss in with one hand on the back of his neck and the other slipping around his waist to settle in the small of his back. The soft sounds Steve makes as they kiss make Sam feel like he can't touch enough of Steve at once, even though they're seamed together now from hips to shoulders.

The sudden rush of cool air against Steve's flushed skin makes him shudder, skin breaking out in goosebumps everywhere Sam isn't touching him.

"Want..."  Steve can't get to get his tongue to obey him, and the word comes out soft and slurred as he paws at Sam's chest

"Bed, let's---come on," Sam says breathlessly against Steve's lips, running both hands through Steve's hair and pressing close against him before stroking his hands down Steve's back and then rising slowly, one hand circled around Steve's wrist.

Steve can do nothing but follow, pupils wide and lips parted around every breathless gasp.

Save one rather graceless pause to push Steve up against the wall by the shoulders and kiss him until Sam's lips tingle, they get to Sam's bedroom with a minimum of delays. The hurried stumble down the hall is just enough time for Sam to wonder a little at Steve's silence; on the one hand, he'd have expected him to run his mouth like he always does, all snark and challenge whenever Sam's getting up to something the least bit interesting, but on the other hand, Sam's not saying shit, either. Plenty else to do besides flap his jaw right now, and once they're through the doors, he gets right to it. He crowds right up into Steve's space, hands locked on his waist, and walks him backward until his legs hit the bedframe, then gives him a shove to send him backward into the pillows so that Sam can straddle his waist. "Thought I was supposed to take you on a date first, soldier," Sam murmurs through a smirk, hands sweeping arcs over Steve's abs and chest.

"Not you, sir."

A distant part of Steve is mortified at what has just come out of his mouth, and he can feel his chest and neck heat.  But he means it.  He wants to be good for Sam, to obey, and he prays Sam will understand, or at least not judge him.

(This is Sam.  If these soft, secret parts of him are safe with anyone, it's with Sam.)

A quirky, lopsided little half-frown half-smirk works its way over Sam's face as he pauses, one hand braced on Steve's hip and the other resting on his chest, palm cupped over his left nipple. "Sir," he repeats, rolling the word over his tongue so that it's not quite a question. As he studies Steve's expression, Sam's own sobers a little, some faint glimmer of realization starting to dawn somewhere at the back of his mind. He leans down just enough to brush his lips lightly over Steve's, then pulls back to meet his eyes. "So...that's how it is, hmm? You sure about that, Captain?"

Steve gasping shudder is answer enough.  His desire is a brand in the shape of Sam's name, flooding him with emotions he can't name.

Sam's brows arch faintly, and suddenly he feels a little breathless. There's an intensity in Steve now that Sam can't quite grasp; that he's the cause of it makes a little shiver course down his spine. He sweeps a thumb over Steve's nipple, not quite roughly but not quite gently, either, and nods. "Alright, then," he murmurs, reaching down to flick open the fly of Steve's pants.

The serum blessed Steve with an impossible refractory period, and he's already hard and leaking again.  (There are times when it's a curse as much as a joy, but this is very much not one of those times.)

"Want...Fuck me, please..."

Sam's barely started to tug Steve's pants down when he realizes that he's already hard again and shivers involuntarily, swallowing hard against a wave of arousal that's honest-to-god dizzying. "You're fucking kidding me," he mutters, shooting Steve a look that's equal parts impressed and jealous. He makes quick work of getting his pants and already-soaked boxers off, taking just a moment to swipe a clean corner of fabric over him to get him somewhat cleaned up before he tosses the clothes aside and plants a hand firmly on Steve's hip, wrapping the other around his cock and starting to stroke it in teasingly slow fashion. "We'll get to it, don't worry," he says, and then leans down to lick a stripe over Steve's nipple.

This isn't how it was supposed to go, supplied a distant part of Steve's brain, but the rest of him is too filled with pleasure to care.  He lays a trembling hand in Sam's hair and gives a hesitant scratch just to see how he would react.

Sam takes the press of Steve's fingers against his scalp as a cue and nips at the sensitive nub of flesh under his tongue, then suckles at it a moment before moving to the opposite side of Steve's chest. His hand traces a lazy line up and down Steve's stomach, trailing a little lower each time and tracing around, but not touching, the swell of his cock where it rests against his belly.

"T-tease," Steve manages to stutter out, arching up in a silent plea for Sam to get on with it.

When Steve's hips arch up off the bed, Sam pulls away from mouthing at his nipple and cuts him a look as he pushes him back down, pressing his palm firmly against the jut of Steve's hipbone. "Yes. Nothing you can't handle, right, Captain?"

Steve's whine is impassioned, and he squirms and wiggles, completely out of his mind with want.

He thinks he should be scared or embarrassed, peeled open to nothing but want.  But Sam... God, perfect Sam makes it so easy to push all his reservations aside and just be.

Steve is letting Sam pin him. They both know damn well that Steve could throw Sam's hand off his hip in a split second, flip them both and have Sam pinned to take what Sam's teasingly refusing to give, but that's not how this is.

Steve is writhing under his hands, whimpering as if he's helpless to do anything but wait for Sam to relent, and that's...

Well, it might just be the hottest fucking thing Sam's ever seen. "Move back, get your knees up," he says, a little surprised at his own tone, low but firm and brooking no argument. "I want to look at you."

Steve trembles like a leaf as he leaps to obey, holding himself open under Sam's appraising gaze.

"Hello, gorgeous," Sam murmurs, barely audible, upon seeing Steve comply so swiftly to let Sam drink in the sight of him. He moves to kneel at the base of the bed, reaching to sweep his hands up the backs of Steve's thighs and then push them wider, palms settled on his knees. "Just like that, stay right where you are," he says, patting Steve's legs before letting his hands trace down over his abdomen once more. He's all cream-pale skin and golden hair darkening to deep bronze, and already he looks hard enough that Sam's own cock throbs in sympathy, though he's nowhere close to full mast again just yet.

He plants a kiss in the hollow of each of Steve's thighs, then nips at the tendon on the right side and sucks a bruise into the soft skin just past it; with his left hand, he traces feather-light trails over Steve's ass, letting his fingertips catch over his hole though he makes no move to circle it nor push in just yet.

Steve throws his head back so hard he hears the headboard crack, and the brief flash of pain makes it a little easier to hold still like Sam wants him to.

Sam hisses in sympathy and leans over Steve, one hand braced on the mattress beside his shoulder and the other slipping through his hair to cup the back of his head. "Jesus, Steve, go easy," he says, somewhat chastising but mostly just concerned. "You okay?

"I'm fine," Steve pouts, trying to arch back up against Sam.

Sam kisses Steve's forehead, lowering himself down just enough to let Steve get a brief taste of friction as their hips brush. He tightens his fingers in Steve's hair, then, pulling to tip his head back so that he can nip along the side of Steve's throat before murmuring, "don't knock yourself out, okay, just be still; I've got you," right against his skin. When he pushes back up, he lets the hand he'd had in Steve's hair settle back on Steve's hip, pushing him back down into the mattress.

"Please," Steve begged, trembling with the effort of staying still.  "Please stop teasing, please.  I need you.  Please, god, I'll do anything.

Sam pauses, regarding Steve's expression for a moment -- there's a note of desperation in his plea that Sam...

Well, Sam really fucking likes it, as it turns out, and that's...that's something he's going to have to take back out and turn over and over in his mind later, after they're done here.

But this time, the first time, probably isn't the right time for pushing his luck where teasing is concerned. "Fine, fine, what am I gonna do when you beg like that but cave, huh? I told you, baby, I've got you," he reassures, letting his hand skim over Steve's stomach as he stretches to the side, rummaging briefly in the bedside table's drawer before coming up with a bottle of lube.

The click of the lube makes Steve sag in relief under Sam's steady hand.  He lets himself feel the print like a blanket, sucking the warmth into himself and letting it spread warmly through his mind.

The breach of Sam's first finger, dripping and ever so gentle, makes Steve gasp, a spurt of pre-come dropping onto his twitching belly.

Sam gasps when Steve does, arousal twanging sharply through his groin as he watches Steve's expression change. He's tight as hell, tough to push into, but Sam goes gently, wriggling and hooking his finger, rotating it until he's past the thick ring of muscle and touching slick silky warmth. "Fuck, that's good," he breathes, pressing into Steve, then pulling out just enough to press in again as he wraps his free hand around Steve's cock. "Just relax for me.  I know you want more than just one, don't you."

Sam touches something inside him and Steve is coming like a rocket despite himself, bowing into the pleasure of Sam's touch.

Coming down, Steve can feel the blush creeping down his neck, embarrass by how little it takes to make him come like a rocket.

How are you even real, Sam wants to ask, but what comes out instead is a breathless curse followed by a rather uncouth moan as he watches Steve spill over his hand, back arched and face damn near epiphanic.

He keeps his finger inside Steve, right up to the third knuckle, palm pressed lightly against his balls, which he rolls now subtly with a gentle pressure. "Guess that's a yes," he says archly, and teases a second finger in past Steve's rim.

Steve is lost, rolling on what seems like endless swells of pleasure and want.

Soon enough, Sam's got three fingers in and is thrusting and hooking them in a steady rhythm, twisting his wrist and opening Steve up as he strokes his free hand over his thighs, keeping them spread wide so he can watch just how beautifully responsive Steve is. "Look at you takin' all that like it's no big deal. What do you say, Captain -- you ready for me?"

"Yes, PLEASE, god yes," Steve babbled, thrusting back desperately against Sam's fingers.  He's most of the way hard again, stomach a mess of come and lube and sweat.

So quickly that he fumbles it, Sam reaches for the lube and slicks himself up, breath quickening as he strokes himself to full hardness with just a few passes of his fist. He keeps one hand on Steve's thigh the whole time, then lines up and runs his thumb around the circle of his hole, prodding just a little, testing as he tries to get his fucking mind around what he's about to do. Steve's spread out like a debauched piece of fine art in front of him, a mess of spunk and sweat and desperation, and Sam's sure he's never seen anything so overwhelmingly arousing in his entire life. He presses in then, right up to the hilt, fingertips biting into the solid muscles of Steve's thighs.

Sex has always felt good, but it's become electric since the serum, and the steady stretch as Sam breaches him has him coming again with a twitch.

"Ooohhh, Sam...". Sam's name is a prayer, a benediction and a plea all at once.

The noise that chokes its way out of Sam is somewhere between a shocked laugh and a helpless moan. Again? Already? "God, that's incredible," he says, voice gone all ragged and low as his hips stutter to a halt. Steve feels so good, hot and tight and velvet-smooth, but he's got to be getting all sorts of overstimulated by now. "You need a break?"

"No more please," Steve begs, shifting so he can thrust up against Sam, desperate for any sort of friction at all.  "Wanna feel you come inside me, fill me up."

Leaning down, Sam catches Steve's mouth in a rough, insistent kiss, one elbow braced by his shoulder as he thrusts back into him hard enough to move him an inch or two up the mattress. He swipes the fingers of his free hand through the mess on Steve's stomach and slicks it over his cock, then moves to brace that arm beside Steve as well so that their torsos are pressed together and Steve's cock slides between them with every jolt of Sam's hips.

Steve comes dry, body not recovered enough to do now than spasm and shake.

Feeling Steve tense and pulse around him, Sam gasps right into Steve's mouth and comes so hard, before he's had any of the usual warning for it, that he loses track of himself for a moment. When he comes to, he's got his forehead dropped onto Steve's shoulder and one hand gripped hard on Steve's hip; his fingertips dig into the skin there as a staggering aftershock jolts through him, wringing another hot spurt of come from him.

Steve feels so full, warm and wet and utterly spent.  Blindly, he nuzzled against Sam's neck, pulse hammering.

Time gets a little slippery, marked only by their combined ragged breathing. Eventually, though, Sam gets himself together enough to press a lingering, if somewhat sloppy, kiss to Steve's lips and then pull out, groaning softly at all that sensation on his oversensitive cock. "Haven't even got the words for what that was," he says, still a little breathless, one hand still braced on Steve's hip as the other reaches up to stroke briefly over the angle of Steve's jaw

Nuzzling blindly into Sam's hand, Steve gives a dopey little smile.

Sam cups the side of Steve's throat as he leans in to give him another kiss, thumb stroking along the edge of Steve's jaw. "I'm gonna go get us something to wipe down with, alright?" he says softly.

Steve's grip on Sam's hip turns bruising and Steve makes a miserable little sound.  He doesn't want Sam to go.  They can get cleaned up later.

Sam gasps without meaning to; Steve is strong as hell, sometimes probably more so than he realizes. "Okay, okay, or I'll just stay right here," he says, a gentle smile tugging up one corner of his mouth as he lowers himself onto his side. He gets the far corner of the sheet and swipes it over Steve's stomach, then rubs the worst of the mess off his own skin as well before tossing that portion of the sheet off the edge of the mattress. He pulls the comforter up over the both of them instead, slipping in close behind Steve so that they're pressed together from ankles to shoulders, and drapes a lazy arm over his waist, palm pressed flat against his abdomen as he presses a line of kisses along Steve's shoulder.

Steve feels immediately ashamed for having hurt Sam, and noses sadly against his neck.  He's still not ready to speak yet, still floaty and not all there.  But Sam is safe and warm, and the soft kisses against his neck and shoulder are soothing and restful.

Steve is so quiet that concern flickers in the back of Sam's mind. He runs his fingertips in a slow trail up and down Steve's stomach and moves even closer still. He tucks his chin over Steve's shoulder, nosing along the edge of his cheek. "Everything okay?" he asks softly. "Don't think I've seen you this quiet since, well, ever."

Sam wants him to talk.  Steve knows he should, and for a long moment, his mouth forms words but no sound comes out.

" 's g'd," Steve finally manages, voice slurred and sleep heavy.  "J'st...Feel...quiet."

The way Steve has to struggle just to come up with the reply isn't lost on Sam, and another cog in the back of his mind starts grinding away at this little piece of information, working it into the bigger picture. "Okay, good," he says, keeping up the gentle rhythm of his hand stroking over Steve's abs. "That's good, just wanted to make sure. Sleep, if you want. I'm not going anywhere."

Steve doesn't so much sleep as come back to himself, and he gives a long, luxurious stretch as his mind clears.

"That...Thank you."

Sam has to wrangle himself out of a contented haze--he's not tired, exactly, but buzzy and loose-limbed, all borne of exertion and satiation and more than a little delayed astonishment--when he finally feels Steve rouse and start to stretch. He hums appreciatively, running a hand over Steve's side as the muscles there pull taut and then relax again. "Mm, thank you," he replies softly, kissing the nape of Steve's neck.

"I probably dumped a lot of shit on you," Steve says contritely.  "I...yeah..."

Sam stills, hand coming to rest on Steve's hip. For a moment, he's quiet; there are several punchy replies that come readily to mind, but Steve's tone lets him know that this is no time to be cavalier. "See, and here I was thinking that I feel pretty damn good, and not dumped on at all," he says after a few beats of silence pass, his thumb rubbing a light, rhythmic circular pattern into the angle of Steve's hipbone. "You...you seemed like you, uh. Were in a little bit of a different place, there, for a bit, though. You wanna tell me what that's about?"

"I like being taken care of," Steve said softly.  "Always have.  Like being able to trust myself to someone else, give myself completely.  To not have to even think.  My brain goes...well, soft, I guess.  Fuzzy, warm."

It's a little more honesty than Sam is prepared for, not merely because it's honest but because of the depth of what Steve is saying. Sam has learned in many ways, some very difficult and some very rewarding, that trust is never, ever to be given blindly nor accepted lightly, so what Steve's saying now settles deep in his chest and makes him feel almost too full of something warm and weighty and unexpected but also unsurprising. This is Steve, after all, and Sam thinks enough of himself to know that he's shown Steve over and over again that he can be trusted, and will return that trust in full.

Tonight is another exchange of that trust, on another level.

"Okay. I get it--probably not completely, but I get it. And you think that'd make me feel...what, burdened?" Sam asks, even though he's already shaking his head subtly, nudging up against the back of Steve's head with his nose and ruffling through the short hairs there. "Wrong." A beat passes, Sam's hand drifting further forward to settle on Steve's stomach. "I like taking care of people. I'd like to be the one to take care of you."

Tears spring unexpectedly to Steve's eyes, and he takes Sam's hand, raising it to his lips so he can kiss the palm in unspoken thanks.

The kiss to his palm is such an unadulteratedly sweet gesture that Sam finds himself a little overcome, something fierce and possessive and grateful all at once burning warm in his chest. He traces along Steve's jaw for a moment, then brings his hand to Steve's shoulder and plants one more kiss to the nape of his neck. "You think you can let me up for long enough to get us a towel and maybe a glass of water? I'll come right back," he says.

"I'm myself again," Steve promised, peeling away with a grimace when he found they had dried stuck together.

Sam has about a hundred different questions drawing together in the back of his mind, but it's no time for a barrage, and most of them are only half-formed anyhow. He returns Steve's kiss, darting in playfully to get his opposite cheek just exactly where Steve had gotten his, before slipping out of the bed and heading for the bathroom. He's quick to wipe himself down, then wets a fresh small towel with warm water and brings it back out to the bedroom. "Lie back for me?" he prompts.

"I can-" Steve starts, aborting his motion towards Sam.  There's something in his eyes, something a little confused and a little scared but mostly just overwhelmed.  He senses that Sam needs to do this for him, that this will help Sam as much as himself, and so he lies back and lets Sam wipe him clean.

Sam feels a little sheepish as he swipes the damp towel over Steve's skin; it's apparent now that Steve is just fine, gaze clear and voice crisp again rather than frayed at the edges as if he'd been drugged. Still, this feels necessary to him, like punctuating the end of a sentence even though Sam doesn't quite grasp why. Once the stickiness is cleared away and the used towel tossed aside, Sam indulges in running his hands in smooth, firm strokes over Steve's sides and down his arms, then tugs him back into a sitting position with one hand cupped at the back of his neck. "Thanks," he says quietly, eyes locked to Steve's. "I just...thanks."

"I know enough about whatever this is to know it goes both ways," Steve said softly, overwhelmed by the affection in Sam's gaze.

Sam kisses the angle of Steve's jaw, nodding subtly as Steve speaks, then pulls back enough to meet his eyes again as his hand slips forward to clasp Steve's shoulder. "So...if it goes both ways...does that mean you're going to want me to be like you were tonight?"

"Not what I meant, though I'd be willing to try if you're into it," Steve replied.  "I meant that both of us have needs.  Just because you were taking care of me doesn't mean you don't have limits or things you want."

Again, Sam is quiet a moment, mulling this over. He hardly knows what being in Steve's state must've felt like; he has some idea, of course, and although he's curious to see it again (more than curious, alright, he'll admit, he is compelled to see Steve like that, and to be the one who puts him there, again), he can't say for sure whether that pliancy and seemingly hazed-over needfulness is something he, personally, would find appealing to experience. "Well...what's it like? You seemed a little...not drunk, exactly, but kind of overwhelmed, like it was hard to talk. That's a good thing?"

"My mind... It was silent.  Turned off.  I've always been an overthinker, and that silence... There's no real way to describe what it means or feels like.  But it's good, really good."

There isn't a soldier he's met who wouldn't understand the beauty of a silent mind. Sam nods, then pushes the fringe of mussed hair back from Steve's forehead and kisses his brow. "Good," he says, "I'm glad."

"And I am sorry I sprung this on you," Steve repeated.  "It's been so long...and so much has happened and...and you've been the only constant thing.  Hell, I'm living with you, Sam.  If I'm taking advantage, if anything is not exactly what you want and need, you tell me, understand?  You don't have to put up with stuff because I'm your friend or because you think I need it."

Sam sits up straighter, nudging his hand under Steve's where it's curled against the mattress and lacing their fingers together. "You need to quit apologizing," he says, shaking his head. "And then you need to back up a minute for me. You're living with me because I offered you a place to stay; I know better than to make offers like that if I don't want to be taken up on them. I wanted you to be here, and yeah, partly because I know how much shit's gone down and I wanted to help, but also just because...well, because I like having you around." Sam edges a little closer now, dropping some of the stern-yet-gentle tone for something more confessorial and yet more tentative all at once. "You can't take advantage of something offered freely, and that's the point, okay? I'm not doing anything I don't want to be doing, and I'm right where I want to be."

"I don't think the army knew they were giving an angel his wings," Steve says, voice thick with the force of the emotions running through him.  "And I don't know what god decided to make you my guardian angel, but I've never been more thankful they did."

Steve's never fit right before, but here in Sam's arms, he thinks he just might.

Sam is speechless. He's not easily overwhelmed by strong emotion; he deals in it daily, but to find himself the focus of it, rather than serving as a filter or a shield or a reflection point, is enough to throw him for a loop. He catches Steve by the arm and pulls him in for a fierce kiss, his other hand coming up to cup Steve's face. When he finally breaks away for breath, he keeps their foreheads pressed close. "I don't think guardian angels are supposed to do what I just did with you," he teases, partly to ease the intensity and partly because he doesn't want to be placed on a pedestal. "But I'm really damn thankful I've got you, too."

Steve's laugh is bubbling and warm, startled out of a warm soft place inside him.

"Perhaps a guardian devil then.  At any rate, I'm famished and I believe I owe someone dinner."

Sam's relief is palpable when Steve laughs instead of withdrawing, and he chuckles a little himself. "Alright, then. Guardian devil it is." He turns to sit beside Steve on the mattress instead of facing him, bumping their shoulders together affectionately (god, Steve is so solid, he's never going to get used to it). "You don't owe me a thing, but if you're offering to cook, like hell I'm gonna try to convince you not to. You want some help?"

"Who said anything about cooking?" Steve said.  "I was planning on taking you out.  Nothing formal.  Just an old haunt of mine, still around from when I was a kid.  Best milkshakes in the city.  And it's three blocks down from a killer pizza place."

Sam pretends to be scandalized. "You mean you're not gonna slave away in the kitchen for me? That's not how this works?" he asks, and makes as if clutching his pearls.

It's not hard because he IS a little scandalized. Steve's pancakes are really, really good, and he'd got it all made up in his head that this is what Steve was going to make for dinner, given the late hour and their relative simplicity.

Still, it'll be a dark day in hell when Sam is capable of passing up pizza or milkshakes. "Alright, never mind, you had me sold at 'milkshakes.' You mean now or just sometime soon?"

"Well, if we wait around too much longer it will be breakfast time," Steve said with a grin.  "Though milkshakes and pizza still seem like valid breakfast options to me."

"Totally valid," Sam agrees, returning Steve's smile with one of his own. He glances down at himself evaluatively, and then runs his eyes over Steve as well. "Guess we're alright for late-night pizza, unless you want to hit the shower first, before we head out."

"If I shower, I'll want you to join me," Steve said, slipping into flannel.  "And if you join me, I'll either be getting dinner with a hard-on or I'll end up taking hours."

The idea of coaxing Steve out to dinner in some quiet, uncrowded-yet-still-very-public restaurant with his cock straining against his jeans the whole time, squirming across from him, is so abruptly arousing that it takes Sam a minute to shake it off and reply. "Right. Okay. Showers later. Got it." he says, sounding just a little strangled as he heads for the closet to pull out a fresh shirt.

"Like that idea?" Steve purred.  "Won't take much.  You know first-hand that all I need is a stiff breeze.  And you're so much more than just that."

"Don't you start," Sam chides teasingly, snapping his shirt at Steve's ass and then dodging around him so that he can get to his dresser to get pants. "You can't talk shit about milkshakes and then distract me like that. Not fair."

"I want to be good for you," Steve says, completely serious.  He swallows, throat suddenly tight.

"Whoa, wait, no," Sam says, frowning a little at the whiplash-shift that's just happened. "Hey, I was only kidding around. It's all good, okay, you are good for me. Come here." He steps over to Steve, running his hands lightly up and down his arms, but not pushing in just yet for an embrace because he's still trying to read Steve's face and gauge his response. 

"I want to know," Steve barreled on, terrified that if he didn't get started now he would never say it.  "I want know your fantasies, what you want to do with me, the things that make you feel warm and even the things that make you feel a little dirty.  But I also want to know what your favorite breakfast is so I can cook it for you when you have a bad night and what your favorite color is so I can paint every wall with it.  I want to hold your hand and bring you flowers at work and kiss you on the street.  I want to stand on every rooftop in Brooklyn and tell the world how much I love you.  I'm not used to being allowed to want that."

Apparently they're just going to dive straight into the Mariana trench, no tanks, no buoyancy devices, no wetsuits, buck-ass naked.   Despite feeling almost hysterically giddy, like he's real short on oxygen (no tanks, remember), Sam finds that he's fine with this.

"Get used to it," he breathes, then pushes in for a deep, insistent kiss, brief but full of heat. "You're allowed now. I love you. Man, all I was planning to do was take a simple shower, Steve, shit, now look at us, what the hell," he says all in a rush when he pulls back, laughing a little but mostly breathless and desperately sincere. "I do, though. Love you. Really. And I'll tell you anything you want to know, but you promised me milkshakes, so we're handling that first. My favorite's mint chocolate chip. Now get dressed."

Steve knows it's a little silly to feel so giddily relieved when Sam had been enthusiastically balls deep in him not half an hour ago, but Steve can't stop smiling as he finishes getting dressed, and when they step outside, Steve shyly slips his hand into Sam's.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the fruit of a glorious email RP that I miss terribly. I polished it up for the Marvel Harlequin bang and here it is.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for Thank God](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359249) by [vassalady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassalady/pseuds/vassalady)




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